Always Alchemy: The Ever After Book (Alchemy #6)

9. A Pissing Contest, but with Cum

9

A PISSING CONTEST, BUT WITH CUM

DEX

T here are two people in the world who see me clearly.

There are two people who know my real soul, who feel its truth deep in their own souls, who love it for what it is and not for anything it has ever tried or pretended or presumed to be.

And I’m marrying both of them this weekend.

Technically, or in the eyes of the French legal system, at least, I married one of them yesterday afternoon. The civil ceremony between me and Max may have been a privilege I could not have dared to hope for or dream of even a couple of years ago, but wasn’t the main event for me. For any of us.

No. That will come in an hour, in a flowery, shady bower in the gardens of the H?tel du Cap, where the three of us are staying for the week. Because a civil wedding between two men may be cause for celebration in this new reality of mine, but a humanist wedding between two men and the woman they both love is endgame for us .

It’s the reason we’re here, and it’s the reason so many of our loved ones have flown down to the South of France. Later, when I look both Max and Darcy in the eye and recite my vows to them, is the moment when all that I am, my heart’s every desire and my life’s very purpose, will be illuminated for everyone to see and hear.

Yesterday was bittersweet, if I’m honest. The awe I felt at standing opposite Max as the notary at the H?tel de Ville in Antibes pronounced us legally married was tempered a little by the fact that Darcy couldn’t be a part of that ceremony with us.

I mean, she was physically a part of it. I didn’t let go of her hand the whole time I stood there, not even when Max kissed me at the end. And we intentionally kept the ceremony as perfunctory, as bureaucratic as possible. It was a case of shoring up our rights, cementing our legal status, and protecting our future selves as fully as possible in the eyes of the British legal system.

We only had two witnesses present—Gen and Anton. Slightly ironic, since Gen had to stand there and watch her sister be excluded from the legal proceedings, a fact for which no amount of circular discussions over the past four months, since our engagement, could really compensate.

Today will be different.

Today, we’ll partake in a ceremony we’ve designed specifically to ensure an equal part for all three of us.

It will be joyous and love-filled.

It will be light-hearted and grave all at once.

It will be us.

As I fumble with my white tie, I glance at my brand-new husband in the mirror. For all the shit I’ve just spouted about today being the main event, I’ve been remarkably guilty of whispering that word to myself over and over for the past twenty-four hours.

Max is my husband .

I am Max’s husband .

And I’m not the only guilty party.

‘How does it feel to take your husband’s cock?’ he crooned in my ear last night as he pinned me facedown on our huge bed and fucked me senseless, Darcy smiling in post-orgasmic bliss right beside us.

I doubt I lasted point-five of a second before coming all over the sheets at those words.

When you’ve had the upbringing I’ve had, and you’ve spent your life believing that the things you want are wrong and sinful and dirty and abnormal , having the most beautiful man in the world whisper that in your ear as he fucks your arse feels like nirvana.

Max’s eyes meet mine. His white tie is, of course, immaculate. So is his hair. He looks patrician and debonair and so handsome he steals the breath from my lungs. So perfect, he makes me want to sink to my knees and pay homage to him with this mouth he adores so much.

The look he gives me tells me there is not the slightest divergence between our thoughts right now.

‘Want me to have a go?’ he offers.

I drop my hands from the ends of my tie in defeat. I’m usually pretty good at this stuff—the benefits of an elite all-male education—but I can’t pull it together enough to get this tie to line up just the way I want it.

‘Please. I want it to be perfect.’

‘I know you do, love.’ He steps towards me and cups my jaw in his hands, tilting my face up to his. ‘But it doesn’t need to be, you know? No one will be looking at your tie, I promise. Because you are perfect, and you are radiant.’ He kisses me lightly on the lips, and his words and his mouth and his eyes have my entire body turning to jelly. ‘Remember that.’

‘I love you so much,’ I say, my voice shuddery. Since giving myself over to Max and Darcy completely, it’s as if my body has become nothing but a vessel from which to pour a relentless stream of molten love for these two people.

I can’t stop telling them how I feel.

I can’t stop showing them how I feel.

‘And I love my husband,’ he says, getting to work on my bowtie without dropping my gaze.

The H word sends a full-body shiver through me.

Will it ever stop feeling like a miracle?

I doubt it.

Eventually, his eyes drop to the job at hand, and I have the extraordinary pleasure of feasting on him at close range. His skin is an even, golden brown from a summer spent sailing and fucking and sunbathing as much as the three of us could manage despite the demands of Wolff, Cerulean and Darcy’s dance studio. The ends of his eyelashes are sun-bleached, and those lips, pressed together in concentration, have me aching. I want so badly to run my tongue along their seam and coax them open.

I want other things, too.

‘There we go,’ he says finally, tugging at the tie and training that intense blue stare back on my face. He pauses. ‘You’re a fucking vision.’

We stand there, drinking each other in.

‘I want to show you,’ I mutter brokenly, reaching between us to cup him between his legs. ‘I want to taste your cum in my mouth when I’m saying my vows.’

Really, I want to feel the painful shadows of his dick in my ass and his scratches down my back and his bites on my neck, my shoulders, but we both promised Darcy faithfully that we’d keep the battle scars for after the most important event of our lives.

I’ve said it before, but Max and I are animals together. We cannot leave each other the fuck alone. I asked Darcy once if it bothered her, if she felt jealous, and she screamed with laughter. ‘Jesus Christ, no,’ she said. ‘You’re doing me a favour. Knock yourselves out. You honestly think I could keep the two of you satisfied at that level by myself? I’d be crippled and incontinent, probably. Having fifty percent of each of you is just about all I can manage.’

I’d say she takes us both beautifully, but I get it. If Max and I use each other to fuck out our respective insatiability and keep the best bits for Darcy, then I can live with myself and the dynamics of this relationship.

Max hardens, predictable as clockwork, under my hand. ‘Is that right, you pretty, perfect thing?’

‘You know it is. And I know you wouldn’t have it any other way, either.’ I grin cheekily, closing the rest of the gap between us and whispering in his ear as I massage his thickening cock. ‘So you don’t like it when a man touches you, eh?’

They’re the words he said to me that day in my former office as he hauled me up against the wall and palmed my cock.

His hand comes around my neck, quick as a flash. ‘I only like it when you touch me. Get on your knees like the shameless little slut you are and get my dick out. Quick. Darcy? Darce. We need you.’

‘Coming!’ she cries from the bathroom, where she’s applying her makeup. A professional stylist has been in to do her hair this morning—now back to the glossy auburn colour it was when we met—but she insisted on doing her own makeup. Not that she needs much, in my opinion, with that perfect skin and golden tan, the light dusting of freckles that so captivated me that first time at Alchemy adorning her nose and cheekbones.

As I get to my knees like my new husband’s good little slut, I glance at the vision approaching us. Our fiancée’s hair is loose and artfully curled to look natural. Small white flowers—gardenias, I believe, based on the portions of floral discussions from which I managed not to zone out—adorn her hair like little stars. She’s barefoot and in her wedding gown, and Christ alive.

She is positively celestial. At the very least, she looks like the most ethereal member of fae royalty.

I pause with my fingers on Max’s flies as we both gape at our bride.

‘Fucking hell, sweetheart,’ he mutters.

She halts a few feet away. I think our intense stares have made her suddenly self-conscious. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Like it?’ I go to rise, but Max holds me where I am with an imperious hand on my shoulder. ‘You look like an angel. You look— otherworldly . Doesn’t she, Max?’

‘You’ve always been the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but today you’re like nothing else on earth,’ he says, his voice strangled.

It’s true. I’ve seen her gown—it’s been hanging in the giant closet in this suite all week. There’s nothing conventional about this relationship, so we haven’t bothered with traditions such as sequestering the wedding dress—or the blushing bride, for that matter—away from the grooms.

The dress is a gorgeous, gauzy thing, but seeing it on our fiancée’s insane, dance-honed body is another experience entirely. It’s only now I realise that, while the bottom half may be long and ethereal, the top half is pretty fucking tiny. It’s completely backless, and the front swoops far below her breasts.

Max holds out a hand, and I watch from my low vantage point as she steps forward to take it.

‘Look at you guys,’ she says, a dreamy smile creeping over her face as her gaze darts between the two of us. ‘God. I can’t believe I’m getting you both . This is crazy, right?’

She slides a hand around my neck as she squeezes Max’s hand. He releases it and hooks her towards him with an arm around her waist.

‘Dex is going to suck me off, but I need your cunt,’ he orders her, and Jesus Christ how I love this, how I live for Max orchestrating these filthy little moments between the three of us, playing us like a puppet master.

I slide a hand up the silken skin of Darcy’s leg, bunching the gauzy fabric as I do. When I reach the top, I cup her glorious arse before feeling between her cheeks. ‘She’s bare,’ I inform Max like the good little soldier I am. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Darcy is definitely not the virginal underwear type of bride, nor is she the sexy underwear type. Our girl is the happy-go-lucky, easy access type.

‘Good,’ he barks. ‘Take me out.’

I wait until he’s secured the handful of frothy fabric from me before unzipping and unbuckling him. He’s straining at his boxer briefs—as am I, believe me. When I tug the elasticated waistband down, he springs out, hard and hot and ready for my mouth.

A glance upwards shows me that Darcy’s draping the fabric of her skirt over one arm, holding it high enough that her smooth pussy is accessible to both of us and widening her stance. I hum my approval before wrapping my fingers around my husband’s cock and sticking my tongue out to lick through his slit .

He bucks. Curses ripely. And once again, the glory of having this effect on this man floors me.

As I wrap my mouth around him, he stiffens further. I suck hungrily, inhaling that warm, musky scent I can never get enough of. I keep my other hand wrapped around Darcy’s calf, tethering myself to her, so I feel her leg jerk as Max presumably finds her pussy. She still has her hand curled around my neck, and I love it. I love when it moves to my shoulder and she digs her fingernails in, finding purchase in the midst of the onslaught to which Max is subjecting her.

A glance to my left shows his supple fingers moving between her long legs, disappearing inside her body, and I have the ridiculous and, by now, familiar sensation of being equally jealous of both of them. I want to finger fuck her just as I want Max’s cruel fingers jamming and twisting inside me. My arse aches for them even while my mouth is full of him.

‘Help me, Dex,’ Max says, reading my mind as usual. ‘She’s giving her entire future to the two of us today. I think that warrants a thoroughly good orgasm, don’t you?’

I moan my agreement, because this dynamic gets me off just as much as being Max’s little fuck toy. I want Darcy’s pussy so full of our fingers and our touch that she spirals into sensory overwhelm.

I want her totally ignorant of where Max ends and I begin.

So I snake my hand up her legs and encounter her soaked, plump flesh and his wet, clever fingers. I intertwine them with mine, stroking Darcy with my hand and Max with my mouth, listening to the cacophony of moans from her and grunts from him, until he’s clawing at my hair and emptying himself down my throat in a volley of spurts that have me gagging and moaning and thrusting into thin air with my need to hump something , anything.

It’s so much, you see, her wet flesh and his relentless dick.

It’s too much.

Darcy comes apart a moment later under the chaotic ministrations of two men who are way too aroused to be dextrous in this moment. But I suspect she loves the onslaught, welcomes our loss of control, relishes that feeling of having our entangled fingers clawing and pressing and pumping in a mindless, insistent jumble.

Her unabashed, delirious cries certainly suggest so, in any case. With the triple set of French doors in this suite all flung wide open to the gardens and the sea, I’d say every guest at our wedding is privy to how deeply we can satisfy our bride.

‘Fuck, that was hot,’ Max says with a sigh as I dry my fingers on Darcy’s thigh before tucking Max back into the suit in which he’ll pledge his entire future to us. He nudges me up with a hand wedged into my armpit, and I stand, willingly.

The three of us stare at each other. I’m diamond-hard, on such a knife-edge of arousal that even looking at my husband and almost-wife in their post-orgasmic states puts me at risk of messing up my extremely nice Givenchy trousers.

‘How shall we get Dex off, sweetheart?’ Max drawls, addressing Darcy but keeping his eyes on me.

‘I think we should do it together,’ she says, and my gaze flits to her. She’s all dewy-skinned and orgasm-flushed, and fuck knows I can’t wait to get that dress off her later.

‘Good idea.’ Max is already moving briskly behind me. ‘Let’s try to avoid bodily fluids on the wedding couture, shall we? Dex, baby, show me how far you can come on that floor.’

That floor is a stunning French oak parquet on which time and love have bestowed a beautiful lustre. It stretches in front of me to the trio of French doors with their flowing drapes and azure vista.

‘Do guys actually do that?’ Darcy asks, amusement on her face. ‘Like a pissing contest, but with cum?’ She unbuckles my belt and shoves down trousers and briefs alike, wrapping her slim fingers around my rock-hard dick. I groan at the bliss of it.

‘Depends on what school you went to,’ Max says smoothly, stepping in behind me. ‘But I’m happy to take Dex on whenever he likes, for your visual titillation, sweetheart.’ His chest is to my back, his jaw rests against my cheekbone, and he wraps an arm around my waist and the hand of that arm around Darcy’s. There’s a spitting sound, and then he wedges his other hand between us, parting my cheeks and pushing a wet finger into the place in my body that has for so long been a source of shame and is now a sure-fire way to have me soaring through the roof.

The moan I make as it forces its way into that tight space echoes off the walls. Another treat for anyone enjoying the hotel gardens right now.

‘Better step to the side,’ Max warns Darcy. ‘No one wants to see the bride walk down the aisle with cum dripping down her dress.’ He’s still working that finger deeper and deeper inside me, despite the tightness of this angle.

I let out a humiliated snort as Darcy steps to one side, resting her chin on my shoulder as she slides her hand up and down my dick.

‘Do you need lube?’ she murmurs in my ear .

‘I’m good.’ This will be quick, and I relish the burn, the chafe, of her skin on mine.

‘He’s Catholic,’ Max drawls into my other ear. ‘He likes a little pain with his pleasure, don’t you, love? You can atone before you’ve even shot your load all over the floor like a fucking schoolboy. Do it hard, Darce. Make that dick burn. Let’s make the last time before he’s damned for all eternity count.’

His hand is still closed tightly over Darcy’s, egging her on. Making her jack me off harder, faster, as he continues to manoeuvre that finger inside me. I stand there, braced and useless and awe-struck at how quickly these two can weave their magic and diffuse me into ecstatic nothingness.

When I was a younger man with disinterested thoughts of some far-off, not particularly desirable “wedding day”, I suppose I imagined our parish church in Knightsbridge and an inevitable (if Dad had his way) Latin Mass.

I did not fathom a spellbinding woman and captivating man masturbating me with their clever fingers and filthy words, urging me to ejaculate every ounce of shame and desire and confusion and denial I’ve ever felt onto the lustrous wood of our sinfully lavish wedding suite.

When I come, it’s with pleasure strangling the words in my throat so they jerk out choked and anguished and enraptured. Darcy’s nuzzling her face into my neck as I shoot rope after white rope onto the centuries-old parquet, while my diabolical husband clamps those even white teeth of his around my opposite earlobe, that halo of pain feeling more heavenly than any celestial pardon could.

I shudder and pant and jerk, my body and my heart and my soul bound by these two people as I let them milk me for everything I’m worth.

After all, that’s what they’ve been doing since the moment I met them. I’m hollowed out for them, cleansed for them.

An olden-day version of me—or a more saintly current-day one—would have attended confession before participating in the Sacrament of Marriage.

For this version, spent and sated and floored with emotion, Max and Darcy’s act of love feels even more symbolic.

Max sucks my smarting earlobe into his mouth as he slides his finger out of my body.

‘Well,’ he says, peering over my shoulder at the evidence of my orgasm spattered across the floor, ‘that looks like a good five or six feet. Not too shabby, husband.’

I bow my head and laugh.